


so left, two, three

by Yuki1014o



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hopeful Ending, Imaginary Gore, Other, and brief, gore but it's inside commie's homicidal fantasy, is it canon divergence if we technically didn't see what happened?, this isn't nearly as bad as the tags make it seem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29050965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: Shoot!Commie thinks, but his fingers won’t move, won’t even twitch. The Makarov pistol feels weightless in his grip, less of a tool and more an extension of his own body. This should be easy. This kind of hesitation is useless.Shoot!Commie thinks, again.Shoot while Ancom is still distracted, shoot before qui can look over, shoot before this turns into a painful struggle. Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!
Relationships: Anarcho-Communism/Communism (Centricide), Anarcho-Communist & Communist (Centricide), ambiguous
Comments: 17
Kudos: 53





	so left, two, three

**Author's Note:**

> "so left two three, so left two three" (Song of the United Front/Einheitsfrontlied)  
> I know that song is more of a PRE leftist revolution song and was made to unite against fascists, and "what happens after a leftist revolution" is set POST fascism being defeated, but, like. whatever. I like the song. sue me.

It would be easier, Commie thinks, if his hands were shaking.

Ancom is only one step away, colors a light and hopeful kind of green, crouched down in the grass, gently cradling a black-eyed susan. Quis attention is bubbled. Qui looks so fucking _happy_ like this. The joy of revolution. Ancom has always had a terrible habit of getting to caught up in that rosy haze. It is going to kill quem.

He is going to kill quem. Or—not kill. Execute. Eliminate. Purge. Right.

If Commie’s hands were shaking, he would shoot right now. His breath would be coming short, he imagines. But he would bite down on his tongue and pull his shaky finger down on the trigger, and the bullet would fly just a little off-aim, but would still hit quem in the skull and grant a quick death. Quis blood would splatter crimson against the green-gold of this flower field, and quis colors would fade away, and the gun would slip from Commie’s hands.

He would cry, he imagines, but would feel assured with the knowledge that this was _all for the best_ and that he _did hesitate._ His hands would have shaken, after all. He would have been _trembling_ as Ancom’s blood hit his shoes and disappeared into all his shades of crimson. He would be assured by physical record that he loved Ancom, even as he executed quem.

Or, perhaps, alternatively, the bullet would not hit. His aim would be too far off, angled badly, shot unsure, and it would graze against the edge of Ancom’s hoodie but wouldn’t hit true. And Ancom would instantly snap back into harsh reality, qui would whip around and doge the next shot, qui would try to attack him, and then—

(Maybe, Ancom would succeed, maybe qui would take him down. Maybe Commie wouldn’t get another chance to fire his bullet, and maybe, then, Ancom would not die.)

(That would be the worst case scenario, though. Only second to quem managing to kill him.)

—then, in self defense, Commie would kill quem.

“I think it would be a shame to till this field,” Ancom says, colors still all pastel around the edges. “It’s a naturally beautiful kind of place, you know? Environmental preservation and everything.”

Commie swallows past the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

It would be easier if his hands were shaking, but they are not. His fingers are stone rested against the trigger, and his arm does not sway, and his aim is steady. His breath is not coming short or loud, but his heart is beating against the cage of his ribs. If he pressed down, now, the bullet would undoubtedly hit square into the back of Ancom’s skull. It would be over instantly.

 _Shoot!_ Commie thinks, but his fingers won’t move, won’t even twitch. The Makarov pistol feels weightless in his grip, less of a tool and more an extension of his own body. This should be easy. This kind of hesitation is useless. _Shoot!_ Commie thinks, again. _Shoot while Ancom is still distracted, shoot before qui can look over, shoot before this turns into a painful struggle. Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!_

“I can make sure this field isn’t converted to industrial land,” Commie tells quem. Around them spreads this golden field of softly green grass and brightly budding yarrow—it isn’t a bad place to die. It isn’t a bad place to bury quem. “I mean—we can make sure. We can make sure.”

Ancom sighs quietly, sound so small Commie can barely pick it up. Quis colors shift a little, darken a bit towards the center. Qui’s still cradling the black eyed susan. “Tankie, all this...this meeting up, this revolution, this unity of _convenience_ —do you think I trust you?”

Commie’s chest seizes. The steel of his pistol is warmed against his skin.

“I very much hope so,” he says, because he wants Ancom to think of him like that. He _wants_ Ancom to see him like he sees himself; warm.

Not gentle, not really, (because certain sacrifices must always be made, and Commie _will_ carry them out, can’t be _hesitating—!_ ) but he is warm. He is the fire that warms hands, the red star that lays his light over all of earth and guides humanity towards a better world. He is the force that tramples injustice. He is unequivocally the only answer. Nazi was all hard edges with none of the warmth; harsh, abrasive, with a heart so far away from anything good that it might as well have never existed. Ancap had doubtless sold his heart away centuries ago. And Ancom—

Ancom has not read enough theory, is too idealistic (is _too fucking idealistic_ , why did qui come today? Surely qui some suspicion?) but qui has a good heart. Ancom’s _intention_ is right. And Commie likes that, loves that, treasures that, so—

It would be nice, for Ancom to think of him as similarly good.

“Comrade, of course I hope you trust me. I hope you know I don’t want you harm.”

“Sure,” Ancom says, colors a fern-green, and something about quis tone makes Commie feel—uneasy. “But you want me gone.”

“I think you have your eventual place.”

“Hah. Commie...” _Commie_ , qui is being serious. The unease intensifies. “...are you planning on betraying me here?”

 _Fuck_.

“I don’t plan to hurt you.” And it isn’t a lie. He wanted— _wants_ this to go painlessly.

Ancom laughs again, still looking away, but quis voice is dry and reminiscent of quis time as Post-Left. “Commie, are you pointing a gun at me?”

_Yes._

_No_ , he wants to lie, but can’t quite force the words out.

“...”

The effect is immediate. The pastel edges dim, then flare into a dangerous shade of lime. One of Ancom’s hands clenches into a fist, and the other, the one around the black eyed susan, tenses. Commie thinks, for a moment, that the flower will be crushed, but Ancom relaxes quis hands and rises to quis feet. Qui looks at him.

And there they are: Ancom looking at him, only a half step away from the barrel of Commie’s gun, and this isn’t how it was supposed to go. Qui wasn’t supposed to know.

Commie clenches his jaw. _Shoo_ _t!_ His joints are still locked in place. It doesn't even make sense. He’s frozen, cocooned in stillness, like some sort of statue. Breeze ruffles lightly against his cheek. It smells like spring grass, even though it’s midsummer.

“I should’ve fucking known,” Ancom says, and Commie can’t read quis expression, but it twists a knife through his chest anyway. Something sad, something like dying hope, something _dangerous_.

There is a volatile enemy of the state half a step from his gun, and this is dangerous. Because this is not just _any_ anarchist, this is the personification of Anarcho-Communism. This fragile stillness could break _any second—_

His finger twitches. _Finally_. Some movement. “It isn’t personal, Anarkitty.”

Qui bares quis teeth. Quis colors are blinking enough to make Commie dizzy. “Don’t _Anarkitty_ me.”

He clears his throat. “Ancom. We can...please don’t fight.”

It’s an unreasonable demand; it’s in Ancom’s very nature to resist.

Ancom pauses a moment, colors shifting—light dark light dark light...dim on the edges, lime further in. What does that mean? ( _W_ _hy isn’t he shooting yet—!_ ) “Do I look like I _want_ to fight you?” Qui asks, rhetorically, and of course qui doesn't. Neither of them have ever wanted this. And then—slowly, but not _that_ slowly, Ancom starts raising quis hands with open palms.

That’s a universal signal of surrender, of non-aggression, and Commie feels something cold and dead that approximates hope rise in his chest. Ancom is...going without a fight?

Wait.

Wait no—!

The purpose of Ancom’s open palms and raised hands become abundantly obvious as qui, in a split-second, grabs the slide of Commies pistol with one hand and presses into Commie’s wrist front the other side and _fuck_.The moment Ancom’s skin makes contact with his, he presses on the trigger but the pistol is already twisted at an angle and the bullet flies foul.

Ancom’s force against his wrist, and the press against the pistol, combined with the shot’s recoil, makes Commie loose any semblance of a good grip and the gun completely rotates and—

“ _Cyka blyat!_ ” Commie cries, index finger erupting into burningwhite-hot _pain_ , because it was caught in the gun’s rotation and broke against the trigger guard. A brief flicker of concern passes over Ancom’s expression, but qui doesn’t dwell.

Qui immediately follows up with a punch to the solar plexus, and Commie stumbles back both to avoid the full force and to regain distance. Ancom doesn't let him gain distance, Ancom is _screwed_ if he regains distance, because he is bearish and towering and has longer reach, and that is usually enough for close fight like this, but Ancom is _skilled_. While Commie has spent the centuries since his crystallization reading and writing and fighting with guns and tanks, Ancom has always been more ground level. It’s—

Commie has no time to ruminate.

Ancom packs a surprising punch in that lithe frame of quis, and while it will never reach the sheer muscle Commie has, qui knows how to focus quis efforts. The next hit is towards his kneecaps, which puts him even further off balance, and Commie knows he has to stop this before Ancom pulls an actual weapon.

So he does what’s natural, he grabs, with the hand that doesn’t have a broken finger, for quis throat, but—

His skin makes contact with something cold and sharp— _spikes_. Beneath all that fabric, Ancom has a sharply spiked collar. _Fuck_. The other ideology makes a high sound of excitement, hits an elbow into Commie’s throat, buckles his knees, and slams quis full body weight onto him.

They both go tumbling onto the hard ground, and Ancom is on top. This is terrible except now Commie can make better use of his mass to roll Ancom over and—

Something cold and steely kisses Commie’s neck.

A folding knife. The sharp, combat kind.

Commie goes very, very still. Somewhere in that struggle, his hat fell off. He feels exposed without it.

“Hah,” Ancom says, settling more comfortably into quis position on top. “Not used to me winning over you?”

“...” Commie stays silent, runs possibilities through his head. There isn’t a good way to break this. Ancom has better reflexes than him. Talk, then? Yeah. Talk. Explain himself? Maybe. he—he wants to explain. He wants Ancom to _understand_.He’s only ever wanted Ancom to understand. “Someday,” he says, “the sate will wither away, _I_ will wither away. Anar—Ancom, I’ve accepted this. I have no problem with you reigning just—not yet. The world isn’t _stable_ yet. It isn’t _ready_ yet.”

Ancom kind of just—stares at him. Quis colors flare. Commie winces. Up close, qui is _very_ bright. “Commie...are you trying to convince me into _suicide? Now?_ ”

“...нет?” Commie says, but it’s a little unsure, and he kind of—kind of was.

Ancom frowns at him, then drags quis free hand down quis face. The mask comes down. Sometime in their scuffle, Ancom’s hood also fell down. The mid-morning sun catches on quis hair and colors it faintly gold.

“You know what I could do?” qui asks, and doesn’t wait for him to answer. “I could could kill you here. I could skip the state. It would be easy like this.”

Ancom sounds like qui means it. Ancom is just stating fact.

Would Ancom really kill him?

If Commie—if even Commie hesitated, could Ancom do it? Skip the state. Skip all the hard work and go straight to _communism_ (moneyless, classless, stateless; utopia)?

 _Would you really slit my throat?_ That—stings, somehow, even though it shouldn’t. Commie has killed quem before, has shot quem through the head, has _betrayed_ quem. He presses his lips thin and tilts his head off to the side. It smells like earth and grass.

“Hey,” Ancom says. “Hey.”

“...How?”

“Look at me.”

 _I don’t want to_ , Commie thinks, _I’ve never had to look you in the eyes after trying to kill you before; I’ve always succeeded._

He looks at quem.

“Do you trust me?” Ancom asks. There’s a strange kind of expression on quis face.

Trust quem? Trust _Ancom?_ Yes, he trusts Ancom. He trusts Ancom to have a good heart, to carry out a good will, to not betray him. But he has just betrayed quem, and killing him would be so much _better_ for quis ideology, and, in the end, isn’t everything for the greater good?

(Then again, Ancom has always, always seen individuals as far more important than Commie ever will.)

(But it’s so hard to _imagine_ that, to imagine giving an opportunity this large up for the sake of a single person—although, perhaps Commie understand a bit better than ever before. Which is fucking _stupid_ , because Commie would still kill quem if he could, would still reach for his second gun if he didn’t know that Ancom would notice.)

(But could he shoot it?)

“I don’t know,” Commie says, then, quieter, “I don’t _know_. I want to trust you. But—I don’t. Ancom...” _I want the best for you, I want to put you to sleep, and I want to quietly whither away without you, and then, when I am gone, I want you to reform into the brilliant world that I’ve left in my wake. I want you to understand, then, that I was right. That our shared ideal is best achieved by my methods. I want that you don’t hate me._ “...If you were to kill me, would that harden your heart enough to mold this world correctly?”

“ _God_ ,” Ancom mutters, “all this, and you don’t trust me? Tankie I’m not just going to _fucking_ —” qui stops, breathes in, breathes out, closes quis eyes, opens them. “Commie, if I drop this knife, promise me that you will not attack me.”

Commie wants to laugh.

“All this, and _you_ still trust _me?_ ”

“...” Ancom’s colors waver, just a bit. “I want to trust you. I’ve always wanted to trust you. I still want to trust you.”

“You’re so _foolish_ ,” Commie spits, and, for some inexplicable reason, his eyes sting.

“...Is that a yes?”

When Ancom takes away the knife, Commie will draw a second gun. This time, he will not hesitate, because Ancom will have a blade against his stomach and hesitation will mean being gutted, because Ancom may hesitate like this, when Commie is inside quis control, qui will not hesitate in a true no-other-solution situation.

So Commie will shoot quem, and quis corpse will fall dead on Commie’s chest, and he will see up close the colors drain away, and he will see against his own skin the gore of Ancom’s skull, and—

Commie tastes bile and acid on the bad of his tongue. Bitter and burning.

“I have another gun inside my coat,” Commie says, and forcing the words out is like pulling teeth.

Ancom hesitates a moment, then slips quis hand under his coat and finds the pistol. Qui tosses it away, far outside of reach. “Now?”

“That was my best option,” he sighs, and glances over into the distant grass and feels—not quite regret. But like he has done something _wrong_. And maybe he has. But it’s hardly as if he can take it back.

Ancom rescinds the knife. Commie does not move. Qui repositions quemself off his chest and onto his legs. He hesitates only a moment before pulling himself upright. A straddle. Commie is hyper aware of the blood coursing through his neck, of the cool grass beneath his fingertips. He would be dead, if Ancom were any less merciful.

The other ideology looks at him, eyes the same tender green of spring grass. But spring—this new springtime of revolution is _over_. It is past time time for new beginnings. Quis lips are pressed thin, and qui is quite obviously wary. But seconds crawl on, and he keeps his stillness, and Ancom kind of—softens, just a little.

“Isn’t it you who said to forget our differences to appreciate this revolution, just for a moment?”

Yes, Commie said that. Of course he did. Why would he want quis last minutes to be spent bickering and worrying? But he can—he can see the hypocrisy. “Ancom, world is molten. I have to shape it _right_.”

Ancom laughs humorlessly. “Commie, if you start with cruel authoritarianism, if you start with purges and violence and execution lines...you think that kind of state, your kind of state, will just _fade away?_ You are never going to whither like this.”

 _I want to do the best for you_ , he thinks, _I want to do the best for everyone._ He _knows_ that it isn’t going to be completely smooth, but it is necessary, too. Dictatorship of the proletariat. It _will_ go away, eventually. Just…

He does not know how to explain that, for all the literature he reads, for every paragraph he’s memorized, he cannot find the words. And so he says nothing.

“Look,” Ancom says, colors going...softer, not dimmer, but softer, less blinding. “Maybe we can fight after this, or debate, or win people over directly, or—hell, maybe we can mutually agree to split the world and see who does better, but just for now...please?”

“But you’ll oppose my methods.” _I want you to understand, please understand_ _._ It’s a desperate kind of want, a deep kind of want, for quem to _get it_. He wants Ancom to see it like he does, always has. The idea of Ancom, in red, with his song on quis lips...it is unrealistic, Commie knows. He _knows_ , but—

“Of course I will,” Ancom huffs. “Of course I’m not going to be okay with you _gulaging_ people; it doesn't have to _be_ like that.”

“Anark—”

Quis colors flare. “ _No_. Don’t call me that. You act like I’m some sort of _idealist_ , and maybe I am, but you are, too. Unlike all the rest of you I’m not _‘idealistic’_ enough it believe that putting humans in positions of power over one another isn’t going to end up _harming peopl_ _e!_ ” By the end up it, Ancom is breathing hard, and there’s an angry, frustrated edge to quis voice.

A beat.

“I just want that you understand,” he says, quietly.

“I want you to understand me, too,” Ancom responds, and now qui just looks tired. “But we can do that tomorrow, or the day after, or _whenever_. Right now, just today, can we not just _coexist?_ ”

Just today.

 _Anarkitty, please, let us forget that for now, simply look at the field we have in front of us. We will till it soon, as one people—_ that is what Commie said, barely ten minutes ago. And Ancom has laughed and said, _Okay Tankie, you know I’m just playing. I love you_. So easily. And qui is asking him to do the same, now, to heed his own words. Just for today.

It would not wise, to slow down, even for one day. And Commie—he cares for everyone an equally large amount; so much he weeps for their struggle, so little he never hesitates to trod on their bodies. Commie does not care for individuals, he does not compromise himself for them, he does not _get attached_ to anyone, but—

“Okay,” Commie says, breathes in, breathes out. “Alright. Just for today.”

Ancom blinks at him, like qui is unsure he has just conceded. But then—then qui brightens up like the dawn. _Smiles_. And qui is gorgeous like that, colors like spring grass, sunlight filtering through the edges of quis hair, expression full of hope and joy.

Damn it.

This, _this_ is why qui was so hard to kill. It’s this.

Ancom, with quis free hand, reaches off to the side and breaks the stem of a yellow pansy. Then—then brings that hand towards Commie’s face, and he has to keep from flinching away. But Ancom just tucks the flower behind his ear. How absolutely _silly_.

Commie slowly reaches a hand up and touches the flower. Its petals are delicate. He furrows his brows at Ancom.

“I think it looks pretty,” Ancom shrugs. “And we’re taking it easy, right? Just today.”

“...да,” Commie says, and this is all so _silly_ , but he—doesn’t dislike it. “So...this is what happens after leftist revolution, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ancom agrees, “and hopefully we can keep this into the future. United front kind of thing.”

Commie’s heart is carved into limitless pieces, split and given equally among the world’s working class. Like this, Commie favors no one. Except—

except Ancom, who stole more pieces than quis rightful share, who took that portion in such a way that Commie can’t quite bring himself to take them back.

“Maybe,” he says, and something light and hopeful like the first buds of spring revolution blooms in his chest. “Maybe."

**Author's Note:**

> Half of this is shitty meaningless babble prose that I should thought was pretty and shoved in. I hope it wasn’t too tedious to read through lol  
> I also want to get the characterization of these two right. I want to do their dynamic right. I hope I have? Idk, I haven't written anything with them so. Especially Ancom, I hope I didn’t do quem terribly  
> This fic felt more miscellaneous than usual  
> also the fight scene. I've never written a fight scene before somehow. And I saw it clearly in my head, but it was a lot of stuff happening fast, and I'm not sure it translated well to the page. hope that wasn't bad
> 
> welp. That aside, I hope you enjoyed! Per usual, constructive criticism is welcome and comments are very appreciated! Please don’t be shy <3


End file.
